Of Dreams and Valor
by Vidumavi
Summary: Boromir's adventures as he seeks the sword that was broken. Chapter 6: Eomer, Boromir, and Faramir struggle with their own separate emotions as Theoden and Grima come into the picture.
1. A Brutal Attack

I have never disliked Boromir, but neither have I especially liked him. However, I thought he deserved a little positive recognition. He seems to be villainized (yes, I know that's not a word) far too often, rather than acknowledged for his many chivalrous deeds.

*Note: This story takes place a few months before the Council of Elrond, and I used a ton of information from Chapter 2 (Book 2) in the Fellowship of the Ring. I didn't make up the battle, or the infamous dream, or any of the characters or places described. Needless to say, I don't own anything. Tolkien wrote everything, I'm just using a little artistic license.

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DREAMS AND VALOR

Chapter 1: A Brutal Attack

It rained that night. The heavens poured down mercilessly upon the rooftops and onto the fields, flooding the dikes of the River Anduin that had for a great many years provided water and food to the inhabitants of the presently disgraced and depleted Gondor. The Gondor whose destiny, unbeknownst to all, was at that moment unfolding into a torrent of emotions inside the head of a young lord: the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor. And the name of said lord was Faramir of Minas Tirith. 

All that he was aware of in this premonition was a bright light coming in from the eastern shore, and as he watched, it began to fade, giving out a mournful, desperate, almost warning shriek. This dream was unlike most dreams; it was unique, as it was in a language the young man knew nothing of. But, even as he slept, the words took form in the depths of his mind, translating themselves into a language he seemed to understand, and yet which he could not describe.

__

"Seek for the sword that was broken…"

"Faramir!"

He awoke with a start at the familiar sound of his brother's voice, calling his name. It took him some time to compose himself; the dream was in no way frightening, yet at the same time it seemed to unlock some strange memory deep inside of him. . . or at least some old, submerged feeling. Remembering where he was, he looked sharply at his brother.

"Why have you awoken me at this late hour, Boromir? Are you not content with waking me up at dawn every morning? Must you do it at twilight?"

Faramir blinked in surprise at the reaction he had not received. Boromir's eyes held none of their usual playfulness and mirth. Instead, they simply revealed to Faramir a terrible sensation of dread. Something was not right. He watched as his brother drew in a terrified, trembling, ragged breath.

"We are under attack."

* * *

There were still a few hours left until dawn. The heavy rain had diminished into a light, uncomfortable drizzle, which left the eastern embankments damp, grimy and terribly flooded. However, even in such dismal conditions, the endless multitude of orcs continued to seep through the Mountains of Shadow. They had but one thing on their minds: bloodshed. And, their master had given them only one order: to kill the men of Gondor. Under such circumstances, they were not about to fail in fulfilling that command.

The great river Anduin was in sight below the hilltops, and the fell creatures watched as the men of Gondor loaded weapons, armor and healing draughts, as well as countless warriors, into longboats that were crossing the river in haste. Before long, most of the impressive army would have crossed the river, preventing the orcs from reaching their homes. The orcs had expected this; Gondor wanted to hold a battle in the deserted lands of vast Ithilien, not among the cities and settlements that were still inhabited on the western shore. And the orcs would not have time to cross the river if the men were able to keep them at bay until dawn, when they would be forced to retreat. But the fell creatures of Mordor now had allies. And these allies were not incapable of traveling under the sun. In fact, these allies were mortal.

Amidst the flanks of snarling, putrid goblins, the orc captain scanned the lands below him, watching the valiant attempt of the men to blockade all possible passages into Gondor from the mountains of Shadow. But they seemed to have forgotten about a very old, unused bridge. The orc smiled. He looked for a moment upon the ancient Bridge of Osgiliath.

"ATTACK!" he shrieked. And so the battle began.

* * *

Boromir eyed the dark and menacing mountains warily. Long it had been since such an assault was made on Gondor. And this was a well planned attack. As the orcs charged at the men, who were flanked about a half a league or so away from the shore, he couldn't help but notice that the men of Gondor were dangerously outnumbered. This had not been a problem in the past, but the orcs seemed to have grown stronger. It was as if some evil force was driving them onward, or perhaps it was simply their long-buried desire for bloodshed and war.

As the orcs drew even closer, Boromir gave the signal to charge. With a yell, he joined the fighters as they assailed their opponents. He unsheathed his sword, and attacked the first orc that came his way, cleaving its head. As another orc instantly appeared, Boromir dealt it a fatal blow to the head with his hilt. He continued to fight in this fashion for some time, and despite his concentration on the battle, he constantly found himself hoping that his young brother remained unharmed. Faramir was in no way naïve, and had experienced his share of battle, but he was still young to the world when compared to the endless war that they all fought against Sauron. 

The sky seemed to lighten; dawn was near.

The orcs began their expected retreat, and Boromir was pleased as he observed that, amidst the numerous bodies of orcs, there did not seem to be any fallen warriors. With a triumphant smile, he turned around, prepared to help any wounded men. But he stopped short in his tracks as he heard a sound in the distance.

It was a faint yet loud battle cry, and the roar of an army's thousand feet and hooves all racing to meet their foes. Boromir spun around and looked back and the dark mountains that loomed ahead. The minutes seemed to go on for hours, as he stared at Ephel Duath with the terror of inevitable death. And finally, he saw them.

It was a great army. Some were on horseback, others just ran. As they grew closer, he could recognize the infamous Easterlings and the deceitful Haradrim. They were coming, and at an alarming speed. 

"Stay!" Boromir yelled to his fellow warriors desperately. "Hold your ground! This is our land. We will protect it, regardless of how outnumbered we may be. Hold your ground!" But even as the words came out of his mouth, Boromir was filled with an undeniable, terrible dread. He stepped forward, sword in hand, ready to fight.

* * *

The battle lasted for a little over two hours. The men were exhausted, on both sides. Words cannot describe the relief that Boromir experienced as their opponents began to finally retreat. The multitude of corrupt men journeyed back into the valleys and fissures of Ephel Duath, disappearing into the shadows of the towering hills. Soon they were lost in the darkness, even as the midday sun shone with an immense brightness.

Boromir had been determined to find his brother, but the second assault, he knew, would require that everyone do what they could to help the wounded. So, despite his fatigue, he assisted the healers by wrapping wounds, administering tonics to the pained, and treating the occasional burns. But he knew that he must report back to his father, and so, placing his lieutenant in command to oversee the post-battle procedures, he set out on his horse, Neldor, and rode for home.

Oh, how the sufferings of his people pained him. He would give much to have the power to give them hope, to show them that there lied a bright, brilliant light beyond this morbid darkness. But he had no such ability, and saw no means of achieving an end to the shadow that polluted Minas Tirith, Gondor, or any part of Middle-earth.

* * *

Boromir had not yet even reached the river when he encountered Faramir. 

"Faramir."

"Boromir!" Boromir looked at his younger brother with concern. Faramir looked unusually anxious when compared to the great relief that filled the eyes of the other warriors Boromir had seen.

"Boromir, what news of the fatalities? Hindar told be naught, and Gilhirn is apparently absent from the troops…" Faramir took a shaky breath in a vain attempt to compose himself. "How many?"

It was Boromir's turn to speak openly of the calamity. He spoke as clearly and calmly as he could, for he did not wish to trouble his brother further.

"We lost a only a scout in the first assault," he said softly, "But five and twenty died in the second. Gilhirn was indeed absent from the troops, as he suffered a minor head wound while fighting the orcs-"

Faramir's failed to hide the worry that filled his mind at the news of his comrade.

"-but he will be fine," Boromir continued, flashing a wry grin at his brother's uneasiness.

Faramir sighed, looking into the far east.

"I'm so glad that this is over," he said quietly.

Boromir looked somber. "I'm afraid, Faramir, that they will be back soon."

Boromir himself looked to the east, where loomed the mighty mountains of Mordor.

"Too soon," he thought gloomily.

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Please review, it just takes a few seconds. You can even write simply "Good" or "Bad". I just want feedback! 

Anyway, in the second chapter, we have more DREAMS (it's Boromir's turn) and I get a little heavy on the action. . .

Again, Please review! Thanks!


	2. The Bridge of Osgiliath

Forgive me, readers, for my lack of experience in battle scenes; I hope this chapter is a little better.

Snitter in Rivendell: Wow. What wonderful encouragement you have given me. The battle in the last chapter is the one Boromir described in the Council of Elrond, and this chapter (hence the name) will include the Bridge of Osgiliath, as well as the Witch-king (though he remains unnamed). 

Thanks to those who reviewed!

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Chapter Two: The Bridge of Osgiliath

The two brothers rode side by side for some time, and, reaching the Anduin, they paused to allow their horses a moment's rest. They had reached a rather narrow and conveniently shallow turn of the river, making it a busy route for those traveling from Gondor to their trading posts or military stations in Ithilien. Nearby was an old, corroded bridge that loomed above them, casting a gloomy shadow on the surrounding marshes and the flanking torrents of the river.

They stood on the grounds that were once Osgiliath, the mightiest of the cities of ancient Gondor. Its name meant "Fortress of the Stars", and rightly so, at one time, but now the once towering buildings and citadels were in ruins, if not gone completely. War had oft been fought on these land, the most distinguished battles having been between the corrupt Minas Morgul and the gallant Minas Tirith. The great city had flanked either side of the Anduin, but now the land on the eastern embankment was uninhabited save for a few forts. The old bridge, however, was still standing.

Many who had looked upon the bridge in recent years were of a new generation that knew naught of its former glory. In ancient years, in a glorious age now long forgotten, the mighty Bridge of Osgiliath had stood proudly as a link between the extensive realm of Gondor and the beautiful countryside of Ithilien, beginning and ending on either sides of the Anduin in the great city Osgiliath. Now, however, it signified the desolate, wretched state that Gondor had become. 

"It would be folly to linger any longer, Faramir," Boromir said warily, eyeing the sun. "We must away; we need to cross the river before nightfall."

They once again mounted, and prepared to cross the bridge. However, they immediately halted when they perceived a horrendous, appalling sound that was painful to hear. Steering their mounts to face due east, they saw a scene that would haunt their nightmares for some time.

For many years had Mount Doom remained inactive, but right before their very eyes, it exploded into a striking array of fire, lava, and smoke. And, from far away in Mordor, a barely audible drumming could be heard, though such pounding could not compare to the loud throbbing of Boromir's heart.

Instantly, without a word or glance in each other's direction, Boromir and Faramir raced towards the battle ground. Terror filled them, and also grief; they knew that a second assault would come, but they had not expected one this soon, nor one of this intensity. 

The hour-long ride was both too long and too short; too terrifying, and yet too eerily calm. They could not hear what lie ahead, and they drew closer, the pounding grew louder, into a wryly rhythmic melody of evil and malice. Night had come, and finally, the battle came into view, and the cries and shouts of war could be heard. 

Boromir scanned the land ahead of him as he dismounted Neldor and ran into the heated war. He unsheathed his broadsword, aware of Faramir trailing closely behind him. He flinched inwardly when he saw a severed body lying on the ground, in a pool of blood that was slowly draining into the earth. 

Holding is sword high in front of him, and filled with a new strength that was born of vengeance, he charged at a nearby cluster of orcs. With his blade, he pierced the heart of the nearest goblin. As the bloodthirsty creatures raised their weapons, he thrust his sword straight into the gut of a second orc, the foul, black blood oozing out onto his gripping hands. To his right, Faramir cleaved the neck of another. 

More of the bloodthirsty creatures approached, one of them raising his black longbow and readying an arrow. But he would never have a chance to deal the killing blow, and within seconds he fell to the ground, one of Faramir's arrows in his chest.

Boromir heard the clanging of swords around him, as well as the heart wrenching screams and moans of his dying comrades that were ever-present in his mind. The roar of battle was deafening , but the army of corrupt men and fell bests finally seemed to be lessening, and the battle would probably end soon. 

But such was not to be. Out of the shadows of Ephel Duath, there came a dim shape in the distance, coming ever closer. As it came nearer to the combat, Boromir could see that it seemed to take the shape of a horseman, garbed entirely in black. And, as though given some silent encouragement, the malevolent army of orcs and men fought on with a new ferocity. The battle now seemed drastically one-sided, as the men of Minas Tirith had grown weary ere the battle had even begun.

Dodging a blow from an orc's sword, he swung his blade against the fell creature's skull, and with a sickening crack, the goblin fell lifeless to the ground.

Boromir fought on, but to no avail. The battle would turn into a blood bath if it kept going like this much longer. He called for the men to retreat. 

They did not need to be told twice. They fled to the Bridge of Osgiliath. Those who were on horseback bore the wounded. The warriors were now in a confused mob. Boromir, however, instantly took action, calling them into order, commanding those who bore wounded soldiers to cross first.

At first, it seemed as though the orcs would turn around and head back to Mordor, and so it seemed to be at first. But once most of the men had crossed over the Bridge, and a mere two dozen were left in Ithilien to cross it, they charged.

Faramir was quick to notice. 

"Boromir!" he cried, and wordlessly pointed at the fell army.

After the first assault, Boromir had suffered from some of the inevitable guilt that proceeds all attacks under your lead. But after this second one, in which he had not only missed part of, he had failed miserably to keep the troops organized, Boromir actually felt the heavy burden of pure ignominy. And under such conditions, he was not in the mood to think rationally, let alone to once again take the responsibility of the lives of his men.

"Over the bridge!" he cried, alerting his troops to the danger that followed closely behind them.

The orcs were gaining on the weary soldiers, and to make matters worse, they were being led by the black horseman. His bulky, black cloak billowed out behind him as he rode his black, red-eyed horse against the raging wind. In his hand he brandished a long, narrow blade.

The men raced across the bridge; the ancient structure creaked and groaned under the heavy weight. Boromir and Faramir led the way, and the western shore was drawing near.

But they would never reach the other side. Even as Boromir continued to run, he felt the wooden laths shifting beneath him, and he stumbled. But he did not tumble onto the hard bridge; he was only aware of a long drop, until he hit the surface of the mighty river. Blackness filled his mind, and he knew no more.

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Be kind, review! I need feedback! It's what keeps me going! Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Boromir's dream has been postponed, but I thought this was a good place to end the second chapter. But the next installment is coming soon, in chapter 3.

Thanks!


	3. Of Dreams to Come

Authors Note: Boromir's dream was delayed a little bit, but I just didn't have the time to fit it into the second chapter. Actually, it seems that this story is going to be rather longer than I had originally intended. I am going to try and update often, but I am also writing another story at the moment which includes Boromir (I don't know WHAT has gotten into me).

Thank you to all who reviewed; you really highlight my evening when I see such wonderful feedback.

Gaslight: LOL! You kind of caught me off guard, there. Actually, I don't really mind you asking: I'm 21, and hanging in there!

One last thing. . . Isn't Boromir wonderful in the extended DVD? I thought so. 

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Chapter 3: What Dreams May Come

The soft glow of daylight warmed his face. He was wandering alone; he could not tell the time of day, for the sun was not visible from behind the clouds, though the day was unusually bright. He was dimly aware of the fact that no other people were around, a sight that would normally have alarmed him. But he was lost in Dreamland, and such idle fears were replaced by an odd, untraceable bliss.

The great castle of Minas Tirith was visible in the distance, a welcoming sight for Boromir. He walked towards, a playful smile on his face. He continued to walk towards it, until, to his great alarm, it vanished, to be replaced by a tall, dark, menacing tower that would have loomed high above the White City. The sunlight that had moments ago warmed his delighted face was gone, replaced by a morbid darkness that flooded the sky and covered all the land in shadow. A terrible coldness surged through him. The eastern sky was soon completely black, and Boromir, filled with dismay, turned desperately to the west, where a pale light still lingered; a gleam of hope in a forsaken blackness. 

It was during his frantic run towards this light that he heard the voice. Remote it was, and yet strangely clear; if he had been more alert (and awake) he would have realized that it was speaking in an Elvish dialect he had heard once before. But to him, it seemed as though it was the only language he knew. The voice spoke in verse, and yet it contained no beauty or appeal; it seemed to be a desperate warning.

* * *

Boromir awoke to an acute ache in his head, and a throbbing pain running up and down his spine. He was aware of a faint voice that was calling someone. . . calling him. . . and yet he could not discern the tone of the voice nor the person it belonged to. He was vaguely aware of a fire burning warmly nearby, and could hear it snapping and smoldering in the dry night air. He groggily blinked his eyes into focus. 

Now he knew who the voice belonged to. It was Faramir. And as soon as the young man saw that Boromir was conscious, a torrent of unintelligible words flooded out of his mouth in, what Boromir thought, was a rather childish manner. But Faramir had been intolerably afraid of the possibility of his brother's death.

"Boromir! Thank the heavens, you've stirred at last! I thought I'd lost you there, for a moment. How's your head? You've got a nasty bruise on your brow, you know, and your back is in bad shape from the impact. Are you hungry? You've been out of it all day, it's nearly midnight now. . . Oh, how tired I must be making you, after the fight and all. . ."

"Fight?" thought Boromir, with a new sense of alarm. It was now his turn to let out an untamable flood of words, for the last thing he could remember was the retreat.

"The fight! The Bridge! Faramir, what happened?"

Faramir looked at his brother, unsure of what to say. The anxiety in his bright eyes had been replaced by grief, and the hesitancy with which he spoke instantly put Boromir on his guard.

"You ordered the withdrawal, and most of the men had crossed the Bridge of Osgiliath, when a sudden onslaught of orcs came. The last few dozen men were crossing the Bridge when-" Faramir glanced up at the river, which Boromir could hear flowing mockingly behind him. "-when the cloaked rider came back, leading on the goblins. I didn't see it very well, I just saw a flash of red light, but before I knew it, the bridge had been thrown down from beneath us." Faramir once again met Boromir's eyes. "You were rendered unconscious by the impact of the water, but I dragged you back to the shore, where we are now. Luckily," he continued, with a wry smile, "we weren't far from the shoreline when we fell."

Boromir sighed, at the exact moment that another sigh met his ears. He then became aware of two other men sitting nearby. But these were only two men, and out of a few dozen.

The inevitable truth slowly crept into his terrified mind.

"Where are the bodies of those who were lost on the bridge?" he asked gently, his sense of duty and command coming back.

"The other remnants, who had safely reached the west embankment, are taking care of that," one of the men said quietly, not meeting Boromir's eyes. Boromir nodded, then turned to his younger brother. He was now fully awake.

"Let us go now to Lord Denethor," he said softly, staring into the western horizon, which seemed oddly illuminated by starlight, despite the cold darkness of night.

* * *

The next morning, as the sun was just starting to rise, the four weary men entered the city. They walked silently up the paved walkway that led to the steps of the large, white structure. There destination was indeed the dwelling of Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, to inform him of the disastrous events that had just taken place.

Boromir had lost men before whom were under his command, but time does naught to assuage the pain and guilt that inevitably follows. And this was one more than twenty who were lost. Boromir was unsure that he could handle the responsibility that being a Lord of Gondor so relentlessly bestowed.

Faramir, on the other hand, despite his youthful innocence, had never seemed uncertain or tentative during a battle. Boromir could easily imagine his younger brother being a Steward of Gondor. He only wished he had such great confidence in himself.

And now, these horrific dreams! Boromir, after much reflection and thought, could still not decipher the agonizing riddle that the mystical voice had imparted to him. He had resolved a while earlier to approach his brother on the matter, though he wished to wait until they were alone. And perhaps he would approach his father, whom was a great reader and lore master.

* * *

"Report," the noble, aged man said briskly.

Boromir had always had a close relationship with his father, a bond that was borne of respect. Boromir highly esteemed his father's knowledge of history and wisdom, as well as his endless experience concerning civil matters of court and commerce.

"The goblins retreated yesterday morning at dawn, my lord, to be followed by an assault by the man of Harad and the Easterlings. This second attack took the lives of five of our men. At sunset, the orcs attacked us again, but joined by a cloaked horseman."

"A cloaked horseman?" Denethor asked skeptically.

"Ai, my lord," Faramir spoke up. Unlike Boromir, Faramir had always had a rather brittle relationship with his father. "He was robed in black, and held a rod of steel in his hand. Wherever he went, fear filled the hearts of even our boldest warriors, and our foes fought on with a new fury at our state of terror."

Denethor looked suddenly grave, as though recalling an old, submerged memory from the past.

"Is this true?" he asked Boromir grimly.

"Ai, it is, my lord. I saw him myself."

Denethor nodded, dismissing the two soldiers who had accompanied his sons. He turned to Boromir. "You had something to ask of me?"

Boromir nodded, and described his dream to his listening father and brother. In his fervent speech, he missed the look of wonder and disbelief that came across Faramir's face. 

Once he was done describing his dream, including the odd voice, Faramir suddenly spoke.

"Seek for the sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's bane shall waken,

And the halfling forth shall stand."

Denethor looked oddly pensive, while Boromir stood frozen in shock.

"Those are the words that were spoken, are they not, Boromir?" Faramir continued.

"Yes, indeed, brother; those exact words. How do you know this?"

"I have had that exact dream on two previous occasions. Long have I wanted to speak about them, but there was no time during the attack." He turned to his father. "What do you make of them, my lord?"

Denethor hesitated, a look of unconcealed wonder in his old features.

"Of these cryptic words, I can say only this: Imladris is, from what I have read in the lore of our land, the name of a far northern dale. In this valley dwells a great Elf-lord, Elrond, Halfelven, greatest of lore masters." He looked as though he were about to say more, but then seemed to think better of it, and fell silent.

All three stood there for a few moments, each lost in his own thoughts, when Boromir's resolute voice broke the silence.

"I will go to Imladris. I will find this sword that was broken, and I will speak to the renown Elrond, before my travels are over."


	4. The Parting

This chapter has been rather difficult to write. I tried to focus on Faramir a little more in this installment, because it might be a while before he appears again (but he will, I promise!).

Also: I know there must be a rule against this somewhere, but I have changed the name of Boromir's horse. "Neldor" is elvish for 'beech', and was only meant to serve as a placeholder until I thought of a name. But I got caught up in the story, and I completely forgot to change it until now. So, from now on, the horse's name is Thalion.

Thanks to those who reviewed! I appreciate it far more than you know.

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Chapter 4: The Parting

It rained again that night. But it seemed to the inhabitants of Minas Tirith that the otherworldly rage that had beaten down upon their city had ceased. The endless torrents of rain was no longer a sign of mirthless scorn, but a different kind of divine emotion: grief. The land of Gondor was now more than ever tainted by the growing occurrence of death. War had taken its toll on the desolate land, leaving its mark in all parts of the country. The usually blissful summertime of June had done nothing now to ease the pain of a mourning people, for the sunlight was mingled with the shadow of the East. And the nighttime was mixed with the evil of Mordor.

The people of Gondor expected their inevitable doom, but none more than the Steward of Gondor. And he had more reason to than any, which wasn't a good sign.

The Steward had understood more about Boromir's dream than he had told his sons. Denethor was not ignorant; nor was he unwise. He knew of Isildur's bane, the name in the North for Sauron's ring. "But it had perished from the world in the ruin of Barad-dur," he reflected, "else it would have been found by now, and the shadow would have ended long ago." So, how could it have awakened?

He thought of his eldest son's plan to seek out the Lord of Imladris. Elrond, if the legends were true, would certainly be able to completely translate Boromir's dream. But did the Elf-lord still dwell on Middle-earth? And if he did, would Boromir be welcome in an elven realm? Perhaps Faramir should go, he knew much about the ways of elves, having studied them endlessly. 

Denethor instantly caught himself in his folly. Faramir had a terrible lack of combat skills, from what he had seen watching his sons in friendly sparring. His youngest son's immaturity would get him killed if he went abroad. Denethor admitted that he would rather have Boromir absent from the battles on the Anduin than risk Faramir's life in foreign lands.

* * *

Faramir had much more to say about Boromir's plans. His father had not looked pleased with Boromir's decision, but Faramir was completely distraught. That night he sought out his brother, caring not about the late hour. He knocked fiercely on his brother's chamber door.

"Boromir!" he called, as loudly as he dared, not wishing to alert any guards or servants.

There was no answer from inside. Faramir knocked again.

He heard, from within the room, Boromir stand and quietly (and rather clumsily) make his way to the door.

He opened it only partially, wearily peering out into the dark corridor.

"Faramir, what--"

Faramir pushed his brother into the bedroom, quickly closing the door behind him. He turned to his now wide-awake brother, who was standing there, in his bedclothes, staring at his brother. 

"Faramir, what is going on?" he demanded, slightly miffed at being awakened when he was leaving for a long trip the next day.

Faramir had prepared his announcement. Or, perhaps it would be more appropriate to say speech, because he knew Boromir would also have much to say on the matter.

"I don't want you to leave tomorrow, Boromir. Hear me out," he warned, as Boromir opened his mouth to interrupt. "Our situation is dire, and our people are desperate. You are needed here, and, more importantly, wanted here. We are on the brink of war with the Black Land, it would be folly for you to leave now, when you are needed most. Let me go to Imladris."

"You?" Boromir asked incredulously. "You have never even left Gondor! At least I have more experience when it comes to traveling abroad."

"Abroad? You have gone no farther than the Gap of Rohan!"

"Do not speak of Rohan as though it were without risk. Its lands are riddled with peril; I nearly did not make it home!"

"That is hardly the point! Faramir snapped, his anger increasing. "I am the one who had the dream first, and on more than one occasion! It came to you only once, and yet you are determined to heed its cryptic words."

Boromir glared at his younger brother. "You wish to travel, brother, and I understand that, but this is far too dangerous! We do not even know where Imladris is, if it even exists outside of song and myth."

"If you are so full of doubt, why are you so eager to go? Father is against your going, he wants you here to hold the fell beasts of Mordor at bay. If the Anduin is taken, all will be lost. I could not handle the responsibility of such matters, let alone the pressure of having father hovering over me at every waking moment, waiting for me to make a mistake. I cannot live up to his standards, nor can I lead our men in the pious and heroic fashion in which you do. Your place is here, Boromir, but mine is not."

"You know nothing about that which you speak of so openly," Boromir said, alarmed by his brother's words. "I have always known you to be a great leader, when it comes to it, Faramir, as well as a great asset to every battle. You say that father scorns you into compliance, but it is due to your doubt alone that you have such little faith in your skills."

"Boromir, you cannot claim to know my troubles; you have always been father's favorite. I do not begrudge you for that fact--" he added hastily, seeing the growing alarm on his brother's face, "--but it has still had an effect on my spirit. Please, Boromir, let me go to Imladris."

Boromir hesitated. His brother's words took a heavy toll on his conscience, for a few moments causing him to doubt everything he had ever known- or at least thought he had known- about his younger brother. But in the end, his mind won over his heart, and his choice was made. 

"I am going, Faramir. It will be for the best."

* * *

It was all Faramir could do not to break down in frustrated sobs as he abruptly left Boromir's room, stealthily making is way through the empty corridor, back to his room.

He could not believe his brother's stubbornness. Boromir and Faramir had always been extremely close, especially after the death of their mother when Faramir was only five. Boromir had always been there to help, console, and comfort him. But in this case, Faramir had a terrible feeling that something was very wrong.

But the bottom line was, he felt uneasy at with the knowledge that Boromir was leaving when their people's situation was so serious. The attacks in Ithilien had ended with tragic results; it seemed too dire a situation for Boromir to leave.

"I am deceiving myself," Faramir thought. "Perhaps I am simply jealous. Or perhaps it is my own personal disappointment at missing the opportunity to leave Gondor. But, loth as I am to admit it, Boromir's absence from our army wouldn't bother me greatly."

He reached his own chamber, and entered it with a gloomy heart.

That night, the dream came again.

* * *

As the night grew on, the rain stopped, and the obscuring clouds passed away. The western skies were unusually bright, the dim light of the stars reflecting off the white stone buildings and the muddy, wet ground. Mount Doom was not alight in the distance, for the first time it was completely dark and silent for the first time since the battle a few days before. But its mere presence tainted any feeling of peace the people of Gondor might have attained. 

Boromir, for one, couldn't sleep that night. He was greatly agitated by the conflict between himself and his brother; Faramir was not usually of a mind to argue, least of all with Boromir. 

Faramir had truly wanted to go to Imladris, that much was obvious. Faramir was far more studious than Boromir had ever been, and had read much about elves, among other things. Boromir, under any other circumstances, would have gladly allowed his brother to take his place in this undertaking. But Boromir had a strange feeling that he should be the one to go. And as a warrior, he had a tendency to stick to his instincts.

Still, the fact that Faramir was truly grieved by Denethor's actions upset Boromir. When they were younger, their father had bestowed upon them much affection. But after the death of his wife, the Steward of Gondor had hardened, even among his own family. Boromir did not place all the blame on his father. But he couldn't help but feel that Lord Denethor was at fault.

* * *

The next morning proved less inclement than the night before. Indeed, it was the bright sun upon his face that had awoken Boromir that day.

After a quick breakfast, he made his way to his father's study. 

He found his father at his desk, pouring over old documents and records. Denethor looked up as his son entered. He gestured for Boromir to sit down.

Denethor was more at ease about his son's decision than he had been the night before. However, that did not mean that he was entirely at ease about the mission itself. He had a few last minute bits of advice to share with Boromir. He peered into his son's face for a moment, and his son looked evenly back. Denethor was pleased.

"You have grown to be a fine man, Boromir," he said softly. "And I have my full confidence that you will succeed on this expedition. But I have some information that I wish to share with you before you go." 

Boromir had expected this; his father was a great reader of lore, and accounted as being specially wise among the men of Gondor. He remained silent: he needed all the help he could get.

"Imladris, I am certain, is to the west of the Misty Mountains. But it will not be easy to locate. It is hidden in a secluded mountain valley. Without outside aid, you will never find its gates."

"Therefore," Denethor continued, after a moment's pause, "I suggest you seek the aid of the men who live up in the north. Perhaps if you encounter any Rangers or Breefolk, they will lend you their aid. But be wary of whomever you may choose to trust."

Boromir nodded. "I will." He got up to leave.

"Just one last thing!" Denethor said quickly, walking around his desk to stand closer to Boromir near the doorway.

"You must remember, Boromir, that the might of Elrond is not in weapons, but wisdom. You may overestimate the charity of his folk, because you have a good heart, and wish to aid your people. But remember, he will give you no more than advice and a few wise words. He will not give you aid for battle."

Boromir nodded again. 'Thank you, father."

Denethor placed a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Be careful, my son. Return to us."

* * *

Boromir made his way to the stables, his things already packed, and his saddlebags swung over his shoulder. He was filled with a strong determination; he did not want to fail his father. 

At his side walked a less-than-merry Faramir, who looked more like a reluctant follower than the new Captain of the Guard. 

Faramir stood in silence as Boromir saddled and mounted Thalion. The sunlight had grown no less intense; the miserably humid summer weather seemed to have returned.

Boromir knew better than to break the awkward silence. He could always tell when his brother was in a bad mood. But he at least had to say goodbye. Who knew when he might see his younger brother again?

"I'm sorry, Faramir," he whispered. "But I have to do this."

Faramir said nothing. He avoided his brother's eyes.

Boromir sighed and started Thalion at a trot. 

"Good luck, Captain," he called out to Faramir, his shaky voice betraying his anguished heart. He passed through the iron gates, riding away from his home and towards the northern White Mountains.

"Good luck, brother," Faramir whispered, watching the retreating form of his brother disappear from view beyond the city wall, never to return.

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Pleeeeeeeeeeeese review. I need critiques to feed my muse!


	5. The Riders of Rohan

Thanks to those who reviewed, but I'm afraid I may have lost some of them. . . The orcs at fanfiction.net deleted the link to my story for a few hours, and I was in hysterics trying to repost the whole thing.

Final Exams are over! (Phew!) I'm off from school for three weeks! (Yay!) And _The Two Towers _is coming! (HALLELUJAH!) Could life get any better? I say it can not. A friend of mine already saw the film, and he said it was ten times better than the first one (if that's even possible!).

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Chapter 5: The Riders of Rohan 

Night had come, and the moon was yet rising over the dim peaks of the mountains, waxing into its full, luminous shape as Boromir reached the rocky base. Here the road branched, one way following the river, bending slightly with the coast as it ran to the North. The other way led to the Riddermark, and would eventually bring Boromir to the grasslands west of the Gap of Rohan. This was the route that Boromir chose, not wanting to find himself in the treacherous lands east of the Misty Mountains. 

For long he had known his intended path, having borrowed a few useful maps from his brother. There was a hidden dell, now overrun with trees, north of the White Mountains, that only the Gondorrim knew of. But a problem presented itself as reality finally began to sink in, and the thrill of being out in the world began to subside. 

It had been many, many years since anyone had traveled through the valley of Stonewain, and even then it had been a difficult passage, from what he had heard. Some people said that wargs and goblins lurked in the caves that lined the valley walls. Others, that bandits and wild men plundered or killed any who happened to travel through. Boromir did not know which, if either, tale was true. But in any case, Stonewain Valley was not a place one wanted to visit, let alone when unaccompanied.

But Boromir, like most men of his age, was not inclined to listen to the old tales of aged hunters, whose stories grew steadily less credible as the years went by. While he was by no means impulsive, he had grown more adventurous as of late, and had reached an unspoken decision that he would judge the world only by his own experiences. Or, at least from verifiable fact.

And so, he found himself within a day or two having passed the narrow entrance of the dense forest and having descended into the menacing, shadowy valley. He rode through in silence, stopping only at night and when his horse was in need of rest. He half-expected, at every moment, for a warg to suddenly lunge at him, or for a thief's arrow to come flying in his direction. But another day went by, and Boromir found himself out of Stonewain and facing the broad plains of Rohan. All in all, the trip had been surprisingly easy.

"_Two easy_," he thought warily, not quite able to shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

* * *

At the same time, in an enclosed region south of the Misty Mountains, the white wizard Saruman was pleased to recall the events that had led to his final return to Orthanc.

He had already attempted to kill the King's son, Théodred, during a brutal attack by the wargs. The murder could have looked like an accident under such convenient conditions. But his scheme had failed; Théodred had proved a better warrior than even Saruman had expected. However, there would be another chance to kill off the Crown Prince, in a few months or so.

As for now, he only had to wait, and watch as his plot unfolded. Gríma would get rid of Éomer, and then would be given his unwarranted and yet expected award: Éowyn.

That wizened fool, Théoden, would soon pass away. It was a wonder he had lasted this long; Saruman's skill was great, and while the King was visibly aged a great deal, he still seemed to have a good year left before his expected demise. It was then that Saruman would execute his plan, and he would be one step closer to his ultimate dominion: Gondor.

* * *

Éomer led the riders in their pursuit of the orc-band which had wreaked havoc on their camp two nights prior. The company's number was less than the norm, being only fifty men. But the twenty or so orcs that they were tracking would be no match for the skill of the Horse-lords. 

They rode on through the plains, underneath the night sky. The air was comfortably cool and dry, but the lands were not well-lit by full moon, which was obscured by the dark clouds. The hour was late, and men far more seasoned than they may have grown tired. But they were used to such labors, and felt the need to lessen the growing number of goblins that swarmed their lands.

Éomer led them onward. Up ahead, familiar shrieks of challenge could be heard, undoubtedly the orcs. But there was also the faint sound of metal clashing with metal, which immediately alarmed them; the orcs were attacking someone. Urging his horse forward, Éomer brought the riders to the sight of the commotion.

There were indeed about twenty orcs, but one or two of them already lie dead on the ground. Éomer could see a tall horse standing nearby, ill at ease, watching the fight before him. A man was fighting the goblins, and he would not be able to last against all of them any longer. With a shout at his men to commence their attack, Éomer leapt off of his horse to help the struggling warrior. To be sure, he must have been a warrior, for he fought with much skill, his broadsword moving with surprising agility and grace. Well, at least the man had been moving with ease a second ago; now he was perceptibly slowing, his body tiring from the strain of battle.

Éomer ran towards the orcs that were rallying against the stranger. He unsheathed his sword, Gúthwinë; it glinted in the moonlight, and he sprang into action. 

"For the Mark!" he cried, driving his blade into the gut of the nearest beast, sending the lifeless form to the ground. He did not wish the stranger to come to any harm, and Éomer would certainly do what he could to prevent such from happening. Dodging a blow from a club, he thrust his sword into the neck of another orc. Glancing up, he now recognized the man as wearing the raiment of Gondor.

"Gondor?" he thought, startled, "None from Gondor have sent word of their coming here, what business could this man have?"

But his thoughts were soon replaced by the even greater urgency to keep the bloodthirsty creatures away from the man he now recognized as his Southern kin.

* * *

Boromir had been filled with tremendous relief when he had spotted the Rohirrim coming to his aid. He had been caught off his guard by the sudden onslaught of goblins; they had surrounded his horse, preventing him from out-riding them.

Now, as he rammed the hilt of his sword into the skull of a particularly unsightly orc, he looked up to see the hewn bodies of the fell beasts scattered across the ground. The man nearest him was very tall, taller even than Boromir. He removed his helm, and in the reflecting moonlight Boromir could clearly see his face. His relief, if possible, doubled.

"I am in your debt, Éomer son of Éomund," he said breathlessly. "I am grateful for your timely arrival."

"Boromir?" Éomer exclaimed, surprised, peering more closely at the Dúnedain, as if he doubted who he spoke to. "Forgive me, I did not recognize you in the dark; it has been long since last we met. It is good to see you again, son of Denethor. But tell me, what business brings you to Rohan, and by yourself?"

Boromir hesitated. He did not know how well it would seem to the listening men if he told them he was seeking out a lord of elves. "I bear a message for the North. We are under attack, so no men could be spared to accompany me. But I am well, thanks to you."

If Éomer felt at all suspicious about Boromir's words, he did well to hide it. "The you must ride with us to Edoras, for you are clearly in need of rest. If you wish it, we will provide men to aid you in your travels." 

"I would appreciate your aid very much, Éomer," Boromir said warmly, his mood lightening. Boromir's horse was brought to him, and the riders mounted. Éomer asked Boromir to sit beside him at the front, and the men were off at great speed towards Edoras.

"Tell me, Éomer, how fares the Mark in these dark days?" Boromir asked civilly.

For a moment, it seemed to Boromir that a darkness was impressed into the hard glint of Éomer's eyes. "So, Rohan fares not much better than Gondor, I see," Boromir thought wistfully.

Éomer glanced at Boromir. "Not very well, I am afraid. Odd things have been happening as of late...Strange people have been coming and going, and Théoden has not taken any steps to clear things up."

Boromir frowned. "What do you mean?"

The Marshal sighed. "I do not doubt the wisdom of my liege; he has been a father to me for many long years. But as of late the King has acted…rather oddly. He is never in his usual character, behaving distantly even to Éowyn and myself. He has aged so greatly, even Théodred fears for his health."

Boromir was surprised, and yet he had a feeling that there was more to this tale than Éomer was revealing. "Not that I can blame him," Boromir thought, "I have not been completely honest with him myself." It was not Boromir's place to pry into the dealings or events of another land. However…it seemed so odd that such foul events could so inconveniently coincide with the attacks on Gondor.

"You are thinking," Éomer said softly, glancing at Boromir, "that I am not disclosing the greater part of my story. And you are correct to think so; for there is another reason than hunting orcs that has caused my departure from Edoras."

Boromir said nothing. Éomer continued:

"My King has been having dealings with a foreigner, who is named here Saruman. He is a wizard of great power and skill. Originally, I thought our prayers for aid had been answered. He strengthened our walls, practically doubled our livestock, and healed the sickest of our people. But when the time for his first departure arrived, he appointed the King an…_advisor_. His name is Gríma, but we call him Wormtongue. He has poisoned my uncle's mind, and has said naught but ill to myself and Théodred. I fear that Saruman is using his supremacy to influence my uncle into doing something rash."

"Rash?"

Éomer nodded. He looked again at Boromir. "Don't you see? He wishes for Gríma to take over the thrown. I am afraid that Théodred's life is in danger, as well as my own."

"Oh," Boromir said lamely. "So, you have left Edoras in fear for your life?"

Éomer let out a mirthless laugh. "You make me a coward with such words! I am no safer here than within the very walls of Meduseld. But I left Edoras for a short while because it pained me to see my King so blind, my cousin so afraid, and my sister…" he paused for a moment, reflecting on the happenings at his home. "…so distraught."

Boromir could think of nothing to say to this. He had never heard of any by the name of Saruman or Gríma. Nor had he witnessed any of the events that Éomer had just described. He did not doubt his comrade's words, but in order to fully understand the situation he knew he must at least try to maintain an objective view on things.

"Then let us make haste," he said finally.

* * *

Hours passed, and still they rode on, underneath the pale moonlight. They continued across the plains, following the smooth path that lay ahead of them, leading them closer to the settlements of Rohan. The lanterns of a village could be seen in the distance, the buildings of which were barely visible in the darkness. 

They reached the village, and continued on; the houses flew by as their horses gained speed, anxious to be home. Boromir shivered slightly in the cool night air. The wandering moon appeared from behind the clouds. A dark form suddenly appeared up ahead, and as they drew closer, Boromir could see the large hill that loomed before him. 

The riders passed over the dike, and then through the thorny fence that encircled the mount. Their road was now on a slope, and they rode up the hillside to the great city that stood upon it. Glancing at the sky, Éomer said softly to Boromir that dawn would soon arrive.

Reaching the top, Boromir could see the wooden buildings with thatched straw roofs that littered the summit. The houses were quiet, and very few people gathered on the side of the street to watch Éomer's return to Edoras. But the few who did wore ragged clothing, their hair unkempt, looking most forlorn. It was plain to Boromir that Rohan was suffering, and that fact annihilated any hope of the Riddermark lending Gondor their aid…at least for the time being.

The Halls of Meduseld remained just as Boromir remembered them. This building was more ornate than any other in the city. Each house had beautiful markings and detail in every segment of wood, but this grand structure outdid the rest. It stood tall and mighty upon a green terrace, and its pillars and roof were lined with gold. 

They reached the courtyard and dismounted. Boromir, like the other riders, was about to lead his horse to the stables, but Éomer gestured for him to stay. Two stable-hands saw to their horses. 

"Come with me," Éomer said briskly. "You must speak to the King."

Boromir blinked. "At this hour? Why?"

"It is nearly dawn. He will have taken to the throne. You must tell him of these attacks on Gondor which you spoke of, they will doubtless be of interest to him."

Boromir nodded.

Two of the sentinel guarding the entrance to the hall turned and entered the building, closing the door behind them. Seeing his puzzled expression, Éomer told Boromir that they had gone to report their coming to the Lord of the Mark. A few moments later, the men returned. 

"The King would see you now."

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Thanks for reading! Just in case I am involved in an accident of sorts that proves serious and prevents me from writing the next chapter before Christmas:

Happy Holidays! Enjoy _The Two Towers!_

Oh, and please review!


	6. King of the Golden Hall

Yay! It's the next chapter! About time! Thanks for the great reviews I got, and now that I have seen The Two Towers four times, I am in a very good mood, and will probably write the coming chapters more frequently. I hope you've all seen the movie, and I also hope it is heavily awarded come Oscar night! (I still think it a shame that Andy Serkis missed out on Best Supporting Actor.)

Faramir's back in this installment, and we get introduced to Théoden, Théodred, Éowyn, and a bit of Gríma just for good measure. It's starts out as Éomer's POV, but it doesn't stay like that the whole chapter. [By the way, Boromir makes a guest appearance.] ;)

This chapter is a tiny bit longer than usual. But please leave a review when you're done reading!

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Chapter 6: King of the Golden Hall (I can't stop stealing book titles. Feel free to stop me.)

Éomer led his companion into the large hall of Meduseld, as he had done countless times in the past with so many others. It was late at night, and they had been traveling for many long hours, so it can only be expected that he allowed his mind to wander. But it wandered to thoughts that Éomer would have preferred be left untouched in the deep places of his conscience. 

It had once made the young Marshal proud on many levels to present someone to his uncle, the much-respected ruler of Rohan. He had been so happy to have connections with so good a man; a beloved king of men. But he could scarce remember such days of happiness. Indeed, it was now a completely different feeling that filled his heart at the sight of his withering uncle. Shame.

He winced inwardly as the thought struck him. All former loyalty to this King seemed useless, and this feeling of discomfiture was more unwelcome than any other emotion. A father Théoden had been to him, raising him from a child and bringing him to manhood. What treachery had Saruman unleashed, so as to kill—yes, killing was the term to describe such malice—a man so dearly loved by all: friends and family, strangers and subjects? What duplicity had arisen in the Riddermark? 

As he drew nearer to the throne, his eyes actually fell upon the aged form of his uncle. He had seen much of the King in this shriveled state. Yet every time the sight surprised him, as though the man grew years older with each passing day. "Years never took their hold on you before now, my lord. What wizardry has now stolen your wisdom and longevity?" he silently pleaded with the wretched form in front of him. He hated this feeling of hopelessness. He knew—or, rather wished—there was something he could do to help. But he simply couldn't comprehend what that might be. "My lord, you must awaken!" He continued his unvoiced anguish. "Where have you gone? Why will you not AWAKE??"

Éomer tore his eyes away from the King before his own bitter sadness drove him mad. His eyes came to rest next on his cousin. Théodred was standing close to the throne, looking gravely at Éomer, but frequently casting curious glances at Boromir. Poor Théodred. His father's ruin had caused much distress on the young lord, though he tried hard to hide it. 

On the king's right was his lovely niece Éowyn. She had been kneeling beside the old king, grasping his aged fingers in her own delicate hand, but had stood upon Éomer's arrival. Her face was grave, and the light in her eyes had long since gone out. Her hair cascaded to her waist, the golden strands reflecting the glow of a nearby fire. She was indeed a sight to behold, though her beauty did not make up for the coldness of her face. To a stranger, she was stern; to those who knew her, she was grieving. She loved her uncle dearly, and was perhaps the King's most loyal subject. Éowyn, Éomer was sure, would literally go to war for her uncle, and do anything that he asked of her. He was the only father she had ever known.

Éomer was sorry for his sister, even more so than for himself or Théodred. Looking up, she met his eyes, and smiled weakly as he bowed to Théoden. Behind him, Boromir silently followed suit. 

* * *

Boromir had been distressed when his friend had told him of the happenings at Edoras. But now, as he looked at the old man who sat limply on the golden throne, he was in utter shock.

This was not Théoden. 

The King's eyes were half-lidded and swollen. The man appeared barely conscious, if indeed he was awake at all. His head was resting on his right shoulder, and he sat slouched in his throne. The worthlessness of his appearance was such a mockery of the nobility of mankind that it was enough to drive anyone to grief. When no recognition appeared on Théoden's face at the sight of Éomer, all thoughts of seeking Rohan's assistance vanished from Boromir's mind. 

Reaching the throne, Boromir bowed low. But bowing only served to send his mind into a whirl of confused emotion. Never had he felt this way. The dignity of his forefathers had left him proud to serve Gondor, as well as keep close friendship to Rohan. He had always admired the valor of his people. But before him sat the only king of men. Oh, what a king he had been. And what a king he was now.

In that hour, Boromir despaired. And it was a terrible feeling. A feeling, if he had only noticed the distraught appearance of his comrade, that could rival Éomer's shame.

He met the young Théodred's eyes. Théodred offered a small smile, though the gesture did nothing to heal the cold sadness of his eyes. If anything, it only served to show Boromir a look of resignation that did not suit the brave Prince of Rohan.

Éowyn still clasped her uncle's hand. Her eyes were quite devoid of emotion, but Boromir suspected it was more out of tiredness than sorrow. Even in the torchlight, she appeared as though she had not had a good night's sleep in some time. 

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Éomer broke the inclement silence.

"My lord, I present Boromir, son of Denethor of Minas Tirith." Boromir couldn't help wondering if the Marshal really expected an answer. Apparently, he did not, but pressed on regardless.

"He has come a long way to see you, uncle. He would speak to you of the happenings in Gondor." Éomer shot a glance at Boromir. Did he want him to speak?

That appeared to be the case, as pointless as it seemed. Feeling painfully foolish, he stepped forward. Clearing his throat, Boromir began, "My lord, I regret to give you bad tidings from my fa—"

"What is this?"

Boromir looked up, wondering at the source of this new, unpleasant voice that had so despicably interrupted his report. He was not an arrogant man, but he did have his pride, and he considered such a disturbance to be a capital offence. Turning around, he saw a small, pallid man enter the room, robed in fine black velvets with dark, shoulder-length hair. His eyes were keen and alert, and they looked upon the son of Denethor with nothing short of suspicion. And the man made no attempt to remain stoic; he appeared to feel quite comfortable here in Théoden's court, and his distrust was open.

Boromir faltered. Who was this intruder, to speak so curtly to a guest and friend? Éomer looked no more pleased. And then he realized.

This was Gríma.

"Gríma," the Marshal said icily, nothing resembling civility in the coldness of his voice. "I was about to inform you of our newly arrived guest. He is Boromir, son of Denethor, whom you know to be the Steward of Gondor, I daresay. I don't believe you have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance in the past."

The man did not look warmly at Boromir, even at this new disclosure, though it did serve to visibly discomfort him.

"My lord, to what do we owe this honor?" he asked, alarming Boromir by the feigned (he assumed it to be feigned; he relied heavily on first impressions, and did not like the man at all) pleasantness in his voice. Nevertheless, he answered civilly. 

"I come bearing ill tidings from my father." This was a lie; he was simply passing through Rohan on his errand to Imladris. But he knew that the Rohirrim's hospitality would be of no small service to him, and they would probably not be pleased with his destination. 

"Indeed?" the man pressed curiously, a sudden interest replacing the wariness in his bright eyes.

"Yes...," Boromir began, uncomfortable. But with a glance from Éomer, he continued. "Osgiliath is presently under attack by the dark forces of the Enemy. Days ago, orcs came at us unawares from Ephel Duath. We drove them away with little effort, but they returned with an increase in numbers. With them were Haradrim and the Easterlings, who were more skilled in battle than they. After little more than an hour they reached the eastern embankment, a league south of the North Crossing, where finally we mustered enough force to prevent them from crossing the river. Many lives were lost, and the Bridge of Osgiliath was destroyed in the battle, after serving us for more than an age."

"Oh? That is ill news indeed," Gríma began softly. Boromir hated to admit that the man sounded sincere, as though his sympathetic response was in earnest. "Tell me, my lord, who now is in charge of Gondor's troops, while you are away from home?" The question, falling upon innocent ears, seemed harmless enough. But for the rest of his life, for a reason unknown to him, he would regret the answer he so willingly gave. 

"My brother, Faramir, is serving as Captain."

* * *

The fighting had ended in Osgiliath for the time being. And Faramir, weary from the physical and emotional strife of battle, welcomed the peace he was temporarily allowed. He had had the strange dream again. And again. And he still did not understand it.

He was a great reader, like his father, and nothing gave him more pleasure than a good book to take his mind off things. So he had settled himself in a chair on his balcony, which overlooked the highest wall of the city, and began reading his current selection. 

It was an interesting book, though it was confusing to be sure. It was an Elvish history, and from what Faramir could make of it, the title translated into Westron as something about the building of a dam. 

"Interesting," he thought, before immersing himself into translating the elven tale. There were pictures that aided his attempt, many drawings of people—probably men—cutting trees and collecting timber. More sketches showed people tying together long pieces of kindling and stacking them into sturdy piles on a coast. A final illustration showed the finished creation. The concept of people coming together to build this mighty dam did not interest him in the least, and yet he read on. For some reason unknown to him, he reveled and took much pride in his ability to understand the Elvish tongue. Apparently, the dam had been built on a small tributary of the River Isen.

It was strange reading about the event in Sindarin lore. The elves had a more reserved, objective perspective of the events described, probably owing to the fact that it was in no way associated with them. But still, he somehow felt connected with the Eldar when he read their books. Perhaps it was the eerie knowledge that an elven hand had written the original script that his fingers now touched.

"What are you reading?"

Faramir started, almost dropping his book. He had been so deep in his thoughts that he had failed to hear his father's approach. 

"An Elvish Script," he said vaguely. He did not cherish the talks he usually had with his father; it was better to end them as quickly as possible. Especially when Boromir was not around to keep the peace.

An awkward silence followed. Faramir did not know what had driven his father at this early hour to his bedchamber, and this thought tweaked his curiosity enough so that he opened his mouth and spoke.

"Did you need something, Father?"

The Steward replied that he did not, and without a word he sat himself next to his son. 

"What are you reading?" he repeated, obviously not happy with the indistinct answer he had initially received.

"It concerns the building of a dam somewhere on the Isen," he said, knowing how lame he probably sounded; it was true he had held no interest in such a trivial subject, but his father didn't know that. 

"It is in Elvish? About building a dam?" his father asked incredulously, causing Faramir to inwardly wince at his harsh tone. "Whatever drove you to read such a thing?"

The young captain was not wont to yield to Denethor; he did not have his brother's pride, but his audacity was no less. "Whyever not? It is an interesting read," he replied defensively. This was a lie, but he didn't care at the moment if he was being deceitful. Indeed, being dishonest with his father had been his means of escaping several arguments... as well as starting more than a few.

What his father next asked him surprised Faramir greatly. "May I see it?" Without waiting for an answer, Denethor leaned forward and took the proffered book from his son's hands. He skimmed through a few pages, and looked at the pictures. He turned over the last piece of parchment, and Faramir realized he had missed the last page. There was another drawing, in which a huge torrent of water could be seen breaking through the splintering wood of the blockade. "That's too bad," Faramir's young mind couldn't help but think. Aloud, he said, "I never noticed that last depiction, I always assumed the text was where the story ended."

"I'm not surprised," his father said, in a scornful tone that only served to infuriate him further. "It fits your impetuous character. You always were a bit careless; never happening to notice the blatantly obvious. Boromir was always more perceptive."

"I wonder how long he will be gone for," Faramir said, abruptly changing the subject. His father ignored him, and continued on the dangerous road he was going.

"Boromir is still better than you at arms, is he not? Perhaps if you practiced more, you could be more useful to him in sparring practice."

"I do not practice as much as I could, perhaps," his son replied, "but I always believed I have employed my time much better." Faramir didn't know what had possessed him to add that last statement, but it was too late to take back the words. And anyway, it was true; he had always preferred improving his mind than his skill with a blade.

"Indeed?" Denethor asked icily. "Pray, what have you done with your time that is so valuable, requiring you neglect your duties?"

"I have not neglected anything you have asked of me, I have merely shown hesitance when complying to them."

He narrowed his eyes. "Answer my question."

"Well," Faramir began, "I don't see how you can scorn me for being so interested in lore and ancient texts, when you yourself are such a renown loremaster." 

Denethor scowled. "And you think you are like me? You think reading foolish elf-tales like this will make you wise? I've said it once, I'll say it again: thank goodness you will never be Steward."

Faramir kept his composure quite easily; his father had reminded him of his "inferiority" to Boromir quite often, in the fact that younger sons were of lesser consequence to a ruler. Boromir was Denethor's heir, and Faramir wasn't disappointed in the idea that he would never be the Steward of Gondor. But it did bother him nonetheless that his father thought so ill of him.

"With your leave, my lord, I would retire now. It is getting very late."

Denethor said nothing, and in an angry swish of thick gray robes he had left the balcony and was making his way back to the hall.

"Oh father," Faramir thought miserably.

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Hope you liked it. And as for a question: What genre should this story be under? I really have no idea, but I hate leaving it under "general". It's not.

Please review! ;)


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